Eternal Sentence
by Sadie Lovegood
Summary: A really dramatic oneshot. Phoebus has been promoted, married, and become a father. So how come he is still haunted by the visions of the dancing gypsy girl? BASED ON BOOK, NOT MOVIE!


"**Eternal Sentence"**

_**A/N: **__This one-shot is BASED ON THE BOOK, NOT THE DISNEY FLICK! Enjoy, even though I regret to inform you this fic oozes melodrama!_

_**Summary: **__Phoebus chose Fleur-de-Lys and condemned Esmeralda to die. Now a married man with two children and recently promoted from Captain to General, Phoebus realizes only too late that he may have left his heart for dead when he hung Esmeralda. _

_**RATING: T +15 for drama-queen-ish writing

* * *

**_

"Phoebus! _Mon amour!_ Phoebus!"

Hmmm….did the sun rise so soon? Alas, my wife decides to arrange a welcoming party for it…again.

"PhoeBUS!"

"_Un moment, chou,_" I say to appease her, rolling out of bed reluctantly. Fleur seems to rise earlier every day. I assume before long she'll awaken before the moon rises.

Moving aside the drapes, I look out over the square below our house on the _Ile de la Cite_. The morning sky is purple and red. A storm must be rolling in later today. The sky is pregnant and bright trying to snitch a peek at the square. Ugh, another day in the life of Phoebus, General of His Majesty's soldiers in Paris. Could my life be more monotonous? I am a young man in my prime. I am 29 years old and already leading the life of an old crone. I do not see combat anymore. As a General, I merely order the troops and hordes of soldiers to station themselves where they need to be. At least as a Captain, I saw exciting lands as I found the wars against the Danes and Swedes. A General sits by the King's right hand as he moves his soldiers around like pawns a chessboard.

I suppose I might as well face the day, like I do every other. I think I'll wear the light blue tunic today. In peacetimes like these, I need not wear my armor while patrolling the streets on my stallion.

After slipping on the tunic and slipping on my shoes, I groan and venture downstairs. The smell of frying onions and eggs makes my belly growl. I hope the beer is cold too. It's the height of summer, and warm beer would cause me to lose my appetite in an instant.

As I enter the kitchen, Fleur looks up at me and smiles her wide smile. She is already dressed in her rose-pink gown, her steeple hat towering high above her forehead, a few locks of bright blonde leaking out from under the henin. She sits at the breakfast table as Sophie and Marguerite, our two kitchen servants, prepare the morning meal.

"The children are fed?"

"Jean-Luc is already at his lessons with Monsieur Lenoir, and Helene is in the nursery with Clothilde," answers Fleur. "And _bonjour _to you too, husband!" Fleur takes my large hand in her cold, delicate one. Nineteen years old and she already has an old maid's hands. Marriage and two children have aged her so harshly. Much more her than I. "Phoebus, must you patrol today?"

"_Bien sur, chou,_" I answer. "It is my duty to His Majesty! If I fail to do my job, I could be hung for insolence!"

"Surely he wouldn't hang the General of his Armies and the husband of the loveliest lady in Paris?" Fleur whines. "I have been so fatigued lately, I was thinking we should take a trip! A voyage! Just the four of us, eh, Phoebus?"

"Fleur, there is so much to do at home!" I roll my eyes. I know I will lose the fight in the long run. The day Fleur does not get her way will be the day hell goes cold.

"But does not a voyage to Holland sound lovely? I heard the tulips are just glorious this time of year!"

Holland! Over 1,000 miles away, what a long trip, even for a soldier such as I!

But I cannot say no to Fleur-de-Lys. I sigh and decide to avert the conversation until later.

"I must go," I say, rising to get my spurs for Ferdinand, my stallion.

"But your patrol doesn't start until nine! Stay with me, Phoebus!"

"I gambled with a tailor at the pub last night and lost. I must repay my debt before the taxman comes," I lie, quickly going out the door. Fleur rushes outside to follow me.

"You forgot one little thing…" Fleur purses her lips. I sigh and kiss her lightly before going to where Ferdinand is tied.

So begins a day in the life of Phoebus, General of the Armies.

* * *

The central square of the _Ile de la Cite_ lies at the foot of Notre Dame. Vendors with carts and small stands sell breads, fruits, even live animals. Noblewomen with baskets under their arms shop for food and flowers. Young lovers hold hands and sit on the steps of Notre Dame, exchanging tokens of love. Artists line the edges of the square, painting and writing. One of them, with long dark hair, I recognize to be Pierre Gringoire. The man is in an absolutely depressive state ever since the siege of Notre Dame several years ago. A widower, though no older than I, he sits in his spot every day and writes furiously. His bride was the one who wrenched my heart and nearly destroyed my relationship with Fleur.

La Esmeralda, the gypsy.

Since I helped expulse the gypsies from Paris, they have been slowly leaking back into town in small numbers rather than large hordes. A few bohemian girls dance in the square, tossed coins by men and spit on by clergy, soldiers, and jealous women. They smile at me tauntingly, as if they knew who I was and what I had done. They have her eyes. Those eyes that remind me of my infidelity and mortal sin.

La Esmeralda, though her neck has been broken for several years, still haunts my mind. Her raven black hair, her piercing green eyes, the way her skirts waved like the ocean as she dances on her little Persian rug, still torture me inside. The woman nearly took my honor from me before I married Fleur. She was beautiful and easily manipulated. I met her as she was being pursued by Quasimodo, the monster of Notre Dame. After saving her, I found myself spiraling into a fiery pit of lust. It was in that pit that my life was all but stolen from me. I cannot remember much about that night at _La Val D'Amour_. Just looking into the puzzlingly horrified look in her Zingara's eyes, then feeling a bolt of lightning strike my back, and a wave of pain turning my world to black. Later, I was told that I had been knifed in the back. By whom I did not know. But I did know that I was being punished by God for giving in to the gypsy. And I was being given a second chance by being saved from prematurely entering the afterlife, where I would surely burn until the end of time.

La Esmeralda was sentenced to death, but at first, her outcast friends, along with the smitten hunchback, attempted to save her. In the end, I personally saw La Esmeralda to the gallows. I saw her neck break as the noose went tight. I saw her die. And I saw my sin die with her.

Or so I felt at first.

I have grown to think that perhaps I was not rewarded for surviving that night on _St. Denis_ and being re-accepted by Fleur. I must admit, I am a wealthy man with a family and a fair and noble reputation. Everyone in town with standing knows my name in a positive light. The outcasts, peasants, and bohemians have undoubtedly antagonized me. Why should the lice-breeding temptresses and foolish drunks matter to me?

They do. Satan whispers her name in my ear, and my gold-plated armor and household fades from my sight. Then my heart aches, and the tender place in my back where the blade of the shadowy assassin struck me throbs. And I know she channels me. From whatever hell or purgatory her soul dances in, she is calling my name to her. No matter how much I can deny it, my heart is calling back to her. But I have muted my heart. For the sake of Fleur, for Jean-Luc, my young son, and Helene my infant daughter, for my house, for His Majesty, for Paris and the Armies under my command I mute my heart. My loins throb when I see the new generation of gypsy smugglers dance at the base of the great cathedral. She dances through them. My body cries for the tempting adventures she advertised to me when she whirled around in circles, her goat leaping behind her.

Sometimes I believe not even Notre Dame listens to me anymore. I pray, alongside Fleur, at Sunday mass, but no relic, cathedral can convince my otherwise. Notre Dame is no longer in my soul. She has abandoned me for killing her daughter. I will suffer, knowing my sins, as long as I live, and she knows it. She judges us all from above, and I have been convicted in her high court, and I will fear her face for as long as I am alive.

That is my eternal sentence. May God have mercy on my soul.


End file.
